A Handful of Dust
by BoomChick
Summary: Schuldig was outside when the explosion hit. Brad Crawford was not. A look at what became of Weiss and Schwartz after the destruction of Epitaph. Warnings for slash, violence, and strong language. *DISCONTINUED* (Sorry, guys, what is here is all there is.)
1. If There Were Water

**Hello, all. Long long long long long time no see. It has been about, oh, five years since I wrote a piece of fanfiction, so I decided, once I finished this little brute, that I would post it. Just to make sure my profile here wasn't TOO abysmal. In contrast to my previous (horrific) fanfics, this will be as cannon based as possible, with no OCs (unless minor characters are required) and rather copius slash. You have been warned.**

**Blame the amazing Rakuengaki for getting me addicted both to Weiss Kreuz and slash fanfiction. It's totally all her fault.  
Also, one last warning. I am not sure if this will ever be continued. Drop me a line in the comments letting me know if you'd like to see more.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kruez or Weizz Kruez: Gluhen. If I did... well... Yohji NEVER would have cut his hair.  
This is a post-Gluhen fic. If you have not seen Gluhen, it will probably not make sense. And why haven't you seen Gluhen yet? SCHWARTZ is in it!**

Chapter 1-- If There Were Water

Schuldig was bored out of his skull. Farfarello had left nearly a year ago, and Nagi had been gone a year three months, and seven days. So there went his two favorite playmates. Brad was locked in his room asleep, and the restless stirrings of the sleeping precognative's brainwaves grated on Schuldig's nerves. It had been interesting watching his boss fall apart for the first month or so. He'd somewhat enjoyed tending the man's wounds in a twisted role-reversal way, but Crawford still hadn't recovered himself, despite his absent physical wounds, and Schuldig was getting very tired of looking after the moping man. However, his overdeveloped since of loyalty towards the man wouldn't allow him to just leave like the others had.

Nagi, he knew, left out of spite and resentment. Schuldig didn't mind that. Their team, to Nagi, was a reminder of Esset. Farfarello left not long after that out of restlessness. Brad had promised him an outlet when he joined, and Farf was never meant for peace. No, Schuldig had no resentment for either of them. Things had been awkward and strained ever since the Elders were beaten and the tower fell. Their freedom had come at the price of their health. Schuldig later discovered that Brad had expected them all to die. It was not a particularly surprising revelation, but after that, things had started to crumble.

It had certainly been interesting, watching Nagi turn from deadpan to bitter, but it hadn't been pleasant. They all knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Nagi was the one that saved them from the tower's collapse, and that he had saved Weiss as well, but no one mentioned it; Schuldig soon started to wonder why Nagi had bothered with Schwartz at all as his anger fell into the open.

Yes, it had all been amusing until the day that Nagi, now scant inches shorter than Schuldig, had informed the telepath that he was 'done' and walked out. Brad, working on his darling computer, hadn't even looked up. After that, when Farfarello left without a word, Schuldig had looked over at Brad and commented 'Just the two of us again, I guess.'

"For now," Brad had replied. Schuldig wondered if that meant that they were splitting up or recruiting, but Brad didn't mention it again.

Months had passed in near silence. With the quiet, moody Crawford, Schuldig dared not play around too much, and Crawford had never been hailed as a great conversationalist. Then one day, out of the blue, Bradly Crawford looked out of the corner of his eye at Schuldig with a wicked smile and said "ready to go back to work, Mastermind?"

Schuldig had been ready months ago, but he contented himself with saying only "hell yes."

So they'd made plans against Esset's new brain-child Epitaph. It had been exciting being around the enchantingly clever and wicked Crawford again. Schuldig enjoyed himself throughly during the process. He'd laughed wildly at the files discussing their clones ("a pyro? Hey! Are they saying I'm flaming!?") and volunteered information as helpful as ever ("I'd totally bang that guy.") but through it all, Brad had been as relaxed and in control as he was under Taketori. Even when they arrived to find Weiss at the scene. But Schuldig felt Crawford's unease when Nagi showed up. Schuldig didn't blame him. The boy had changed. He ripped twenty highly trained agents to shreds without batting an eye, no more than a soft regret sliding over his young face. That, and he addressed the young Taketori with affection.

Schuldig was not pleased with that. He and Crawford split to their positions without another word, suddenly thrown back into brooding silence. When Schuldig caught up to the one Esset claimed was superior to him, Weiss was already there, and Schuldig had to make a choice: Weiss or Esset. He chose Esset, and snipped at the goodie-two-shoes to go ahead. Nagi's presence in the building was a constant buzz in the back of Schuldig's mind.

Then the pyro had attacked and Schuldig realized exactly why he was in trouble. The bastard was immune to his telepathy. He felt it when Nagi realized he could not catch his opponent in a telekinetic field; when Brad realized he could not 'see' his opponent's next move and was pulled into his mind game, and Schuldig could do nothing for them. He was having to work hard enough to stay alive amid the flames the pyro threw at him.

Then Nagi won (Schuldig had no idea how) and the telepath nearly jumped out of his skin when Nagi opened his long-closed link with him. He appeared shining gold in Schuldig's mind, so brightly the telepath could almost see him, and in a newly deepened voice, the boy offered his help. Refusing never even crossed Schuldig's mind. With Nagi whispering strategy in his mental ear, Schuldig gained the upper hand in seconds flat. He didn't waste his chance. The pyro's neck snapped satisfyingly, but Schuldig scorched his fingers on the man's skin.

The moment Schuldig's opponent was dead, Nagi vanished from his mind's eye, using Schuldig's telepathic connection to hop into Brad's consciousness. Schuldig brushed the soot off his pants with smarting hands and started walking. No one of the countless lackeys dashing through the halls gave him a second look (mainly because he made sure they didn't), and he reached the rooftop rendezvous point ahead of schedule. Staring out over the building, he reveled in the feeling of Esset's panic.

So Schuldig was outside when the explosion hit, waiting for Brad on the roof where they'd started. He was singed, grumpy, and smelled a little like burned hair, but was none the worse for wear. He had assumed the same about Crawford, and had settled in on the building's edge to wait, bemoan the loss of his new jacket, and stroke his ego. (Getting saved by Nagi had NOT been part of his plan.) And then the Epitaph building had crumbled to the ground, throwing a thick, gritty dust into the air, and filling Schuldig with a sick dread. It only took a quick mental scan for Schuldig's fears to be confirmed. Brad had not gotten out.

Schuldig was off the roof in an instant, screaming down the stairs, his long legs carrying him faster and faster towards the destruction. He came to a halt only after he reached what had once been the front door. Already, just to get that far, he had navigated a massive amount of shattered concrete. Now he stood on the edge of the destruction, the rusty dust thick in his lungs, and hoped that Brad had not been in the basement. He stepped into the rubble, and started looking. It ought to have been easy, as Schuldig saw it, to locate Brad's mind and rescue him, but the dust made him dizzy, and every living person left in proximity was thinking the same thing; they were in pain. So, one by one, Schuldig wet through every mind in the building, found the one that came through clearest and closest, and went to work.

The first was not Brad. Schuldig crushed the stranger's throat with his heel, took the man's gun, and found the next mind to uncover. Schuldig unburied seven more people, and shot each one of them, taking any bullets they had with them, and eventually switching guns with one corpse. He couldn't risk wasting the energy it would take to avoid discovering them again. His body was trembling with exertion, but he didn't dare stop to rest, and there was no way he would leave this place alone. He nearly stepped on the hand of the next body, lost in his thoughts, and stumbled avoiding it, wrenching his ankle on the uneven ground.

"Scheisse," Schuldig snarled, shaking his leg out for a moment. He didn't linger long over the pain, moving over to start uncovering the man whose mind was humming with life. There was something familiar about the feeling of thought washing over Schuldig's shields, but he did not linger over the sensation. His arms felt weak from over-use. He was strong, impressively so, but he was worn out from his fight with the pyro-maniac, and exhausted from his search, and his well-defined muscles were shuddering from the effort of shifting rubble. When he finally saw the other man's face, he let out a horse choke of a laugh.

Even through the filth and blood, it was easy to recognize Weiss's blonde, though he had bleached his hair an atrocious sunny color that clashed horribly with his honey skin. He lay sprawled in the broken ruins, one cheek sprayed with shrapnel. He had obviously been close to a center of the explosion. Schuldig pulled his gun out of his belt and put it to Kudoh Yohji's head. After years, he had finally gotten his chance to pay the bastard back for the scars that crisscrossed Schuldig's throat from those damned wire attacks. Schuldig knelt, frozen, on the ground for a long time, the barrel of his gun pressing into the pale skin of Yohji's temple. Then, with a heavy sigh, he clicked the safety back on and shoved the gun through the back of his belt before grabbing Kudoh under the shoulders and dragging him free of the debris trapping his legs. Before he gave himself time to think, Schuldig hoisted the blond over once shoulder and, covered in sweat and grit, carried his enemy free of the disaster zone.

Schuldig fully intended to drop Kudoh on his ass and leave him once he was clear (just as he had fully intended to put a bullet in his brain), but instead found himself leaning the blonde gently against the stump of a toppled tree, carefully laying his broken arm across his lap. Then those soulful, jade eyes opened and fixed their gaze on the orange-haired man.

"Don't get the wrong idea, Kudoh." Schuldig growled with a hint of a wheeze in his throat. Those green eyes didn't falter; did not narrow in hatred, or widen in surprise; Yohji just gazed blankly at him, so Schuldig felt compelled to continue. "I just want someone to survive…." Schuldig winced as he spoke at the pathetic sentiment and turned, walking away without a backwards glance. With luck, Kudoh would never remember their encounter, and Brad would never ever find out.

Brad. Fuck. He had to find Brad.

Schuldig stumbled through the remains of Epitaph, looking for any signs of life, still reaching out with his mind, searching desperately now for anyone who felt like Crawford, because he was damn sure he was running out of time if he wanted to escape Kritiker. Not that there would be much point in running without Brad, but there would be no point in finding Brad if they had nowhere to run.

And then there it was; that faint pull of familiarity in Schuldig's mind. He froze in his tracks and reached out with a thought. Brad was close by, but was not doing well. The telepath couldn't really feel Brad's pain (that was an empathy thing), but anyone hearing the elder man's thoughts would have recognized the moaning screams of agony that filled and nearly overwhelmed them. Finally, Schuldig distanced himself from Crawford's thoughts once more and started walking briskly towards him, all exhaustion forgotten. His time was almost up. He could feel people beginning to arrive on the scene, and not one of them would be a friend to the remnants of Schwartz. He sped up as much as he could without loosing his footing on the rough terrain.

He almost missed Crawford. The man was crumpled on the ground, a grimy puddle of blood around his head, dying his white hair an awful pink-ish color. His skin was so pale it nearly blended in with the grey concrete. Were it not for the glint of blood in the fading light, Schuldig never would have found him. The telepath walked over to the other man slowly, his mind a whirl of movement. Brad was unconscious and hurt, Kritiker was arriving en mass now, Schuldig himself was next to useless in his current state, and Nagi had disappeared with most of Weiss. Schuldig let out another sharp curse and lowered himself to the ground, checking Brad's vital signs, feeling trapped from every side. There was no where he could go that was not a veritable pool of Kritiker forces by now, and, though Schuldig was a near invincible telepath at his best, he was well aware that he was far from his best at the moment. Schuldig tried to calm down as he checked Brad over, silently hoping that the other man would be able to help him. That turned out not to be an option. Even if Brad had been awake, one look at the gash on his head and a glance at his eyes was all Schuldig needed to be pretty certain that Brad had a concussion.

"Shit" Schuldig snipped, "Shit shit shit." Kritiker was closing in. He could hear the chainsaw buzz of their minds getting louder by the moment, and panic was beginning to rise in his chest. He knew he couldn't take on a whole field team of Kritiker agents right now. The metal of the gun was cold against his back, like a sick reminder that he could always finish himself and Brad off if they ran out of options. Schuldig did not like that plan in the least, but if it came down to a choice…

Then, as suddenly as they had approached, the Kritiker agents were falling back. Schuldig didn't stick around to find out why. He had Brad on his shoulder and was running as fast as he could before the Kritiker bastards changed their minds again.


	2. Each in His Prison

**A/N: Well, thanks to fantastic reviewers and the lovely Rakuengaki (my beta) this fic will continue! Please drop me a line. I am a review monster. I survive only the reviews of unsuspecting readers. Warnings still apply! Though sorry, no slash yet. Be patient, sweet fangirls.**

Chapter 2—Each in His Prison

Omi Tsukiono was supposed to be dead. He had told his comrades that he would not be returning after this mission, and would instead resurrect Mamoru Taketori. But now, standing shell-shocked on the edge of the rubble next to a silent and trembling Ran, Omi was quite aware of the fact that Mamoru would not have sent his entire organization out into a sea of detritus to find one man. Omi couldn't help it. Yohji was out there somewhere, and he'd be damned if he disappeared before he got Yohji out. Behind him, he could 'feel' Nagi's powers surrounding him, smoothing across his hair in the only sort of affection Nagi ever gave. The stoic boy almost never touched, but his telekinesis was often used as a substitute. Omi knew Ran had noticed the contact, and was deeply grateful that he didn't mention it. Nagi never would have continued had the connection been recognized. Instead, the taller man's eyes were fixed on the sea of grey concrete before them, scanning the horizon as Kritiker agents poured forward to try and find his missing friend. Omi knew that Ran was torn. He wanted to be out there, searching for Yohji, but knew that in his state he would only be in the way. Behind them, they could hear the medics working on Ken insisting that he should be in the hospital even as Ken stubbornly refused to leave before he learned Yohji's fate.

The radio in Omi's hand crackled to life, and a strange voice came through. "Sir, we've found Mr. Kudoh."

Omi shared a long look with Ran, catching the faint worry and exhaustion in violet eyes. He collected himself quickly and snapped "Status?" into the speaker. There was a tense moment of silence, and Nagi stepped up beside his chosen leader, a silent support, though he could feel the cold eyes of Fujimiya Ran tracing his every move. The radio crackled to life again.

"He's alive, sir. Injured, but alive."

"Get him back here and pull out before what's left out there collapses." Omi said softly, just a hint of quaver in his voice. He turned to Ran with dark eyes and a frown, and Ran was waiting for him with a blank gaze. Omi took in a long breath.

"I have to go." He whispered as the first of his agents started to stumble back out of the debris.

"Do what you have to." Ran said, voice distant and old as ever, but Omi imagined he could see one more layer of darkness and loss falling over the man. With a rush of guilt, Omi turned from the person who had given him purpose, and the closest thing to a real family he had ever known. From his peripheral vision he saw Nagi bow to Ran deeply, with true respect implied, and noted that Ran nodded in return. And before he was forgotten, Omi allowed himself one moment of regret, that so soon after finding both a family and a lover he would have to sacrifice his very existence for their cause.

Mamoru Taketori returned his gaze to the front and did not look back again. As he climbed into the dark, sleek car waiting for him, he looked out the window at Nagi, the young man with old eyes who had come to him desperately lost, and had become such a comfort. He lowered the window in his car.

"Nagi," he said softly. A look of hope flared across the young man's face and he stepped closer to hear what Mamoru had to say to him. Mamoru shoved away the instinct to protect that fragile hope, and continued with a heartless smile "If you are on our side, you will not assist Schwartz next time."

He did not turn back to the front fast enough to miss the look of surprise and hurt that crossed Nagi's face, but he also saw the resolute nod the young telekinetic gave him through tinted glass before turning and striding away, blending into the shadows in seconds. Mamoru waved to the driver to get moving, and forced himself to ignore the men coming out of the destruction zone carrying a stretcher with someone who might be his once best friend upon it.

-- --

Schuldig stumbled to a halt in an alleyway halfway through the city and all but dropped Brad to the ground, though he was careful not to let the other man's head hit too hard. One concussion was bad enough without a second. Once Brad was fully on the asphalt, Schuldig stumbled a couple of steps away before crumbling to his knees and throwing up. Overexertion, it seemed, had finally caught up to him. He was freezing, and hot at the same time, his insides on fire, lungs burning, and his skin so chilled from the cold night air and drying sweat he wasn't sure he'd be able to move again. As if taking a cue from his stomach, his lungs decided to express their woes as well, and threw him into a ragged fit of coughing, expelling dust from an explosion scene miles away onto the ground. Though there was already nothing in his stomach, he remained doubled over retching and choking in the stinking alley for what seemed like years, though his over-developed internal clock told him it was roughly five minutes. Which made it about one twelve in the morning. He had been running for roughly forty five minutes. Schuldig allowed himself a brief, miserable moan when he stopped coughing, trembling hands clenching on the rough asphalt as he struggled just to hold himself off the ground.

When the spasms calmed, Schuldig wiped the bile from his lips and hauled himself to his feet once more. The already dark world went grey in his vision briefly, and he felt cotton fill his brain. He froze stock still on the wall, knowing that if he passed out now, Brad would probably bleed to death in the night. He needed to find them somewhere to rest and recover, but first he had to let the blood flow back into his brain. When he could think again, he slowly maneuvered back to his leader. He had stopped briefly once out of direct range of Kritiker to tie off Brad's more serious wounds, but the scraps of cloth he had been forced to use were as filthy as he was, coated in bits of rubble and dust. They were all nearly soaked through, and Brad still hadn't woken.

Schuldig fought off another grey spell as he knelt by the man who he owed his life to. The light was non-existent, and he couldn't tell how much of Brad's grey coloring was filth from the explosion. Schuldig forced himself to concentrate and ignore the pathetic little whimpers of breath squeezing past Crawford's lips. Opening himself mentally to the night, Schuldig searched for anywhere he could run.

One hotel had not yet locked their doors, and was all but empty of staff. Schuldig estimated it to be roughly two thirds of a mile away, and wondered if he could hold out that long. Then he forced any doubt from his head, pulled Brad over his shoulders again and stood, stumbling and once more struggling against oblivion as he started walking.

-- --

When they brought Yohji out into the circle of emergency team flood lights, Ran thought he might have died on the way. His tanned skin was bloodied and pale, and he lay somewhat unnaturally. He him as he was carried to one of the waiting ambulances, very near where Ken was struggling away from a young pair of paramedics to join his injured team-mate. In seconds flat, Yohji was surrounded by strangers in light blue uniforms as Ran and Ken looked on, exhausted and worried. Ran hesitated only a moment before placing a bracing hand on Ken's shoulder, as much to remind himself he was not alone as to comfort his friend. Ken didn't glance up, but covered the hand with one of his own in a brief display of affection, that was as natural as breathing to one, and an unknown territory for another. The ambulance revved to life and Ran was beckoned over to Yohji's side by one of the paramedics.

"Mr. Kudoh is suffering from a severe concussion and a lot of physical trauma." The young woman said calmly. "We think he'll make a full recovery, but we're taking him to the nearest hospital." Even as she was speaking, the remaining workers loaded Yohji's still body into the back of the van and slid in before closing the doors. Ran caught a twitch of fingers and an intake of breath from his best friend before he was out of sight, and it lightened the burden of guilt on him ever so slightly to see the other man stir. The young woman waited for him to return his gaze to her before she continued. "Your friend" She said when Ran's gaze rested on her, nodding over his shoulder to Ken, "is also in need of proper medical attention. Perhaps you could recommend to him that it would be much easier for him to be there for Mr. Kudoh if he were in the same hospital." The young woman offered Ran a final smile before returning to her own station and donning a pair of gloves.

Ran turned from her emotionless, and met Ken's worried stare. He closed the distance between them in seconds, and whispered "he'll be okay." Ken relaxed visibly, sagging to sit on the bumper of the ambulance he ought to have been in. Ran looked down to the bloody patch of bandages on Ken's bare torso and once more initiated contact with the other man, touching a light hand to Ken's bicep. "You need to follow him to the hospital." He said firmly, knowing that though he was stubborn, Ken was equally loyal, and was unlikely to disobey Ran's authority. True to his assessment, the young athlete nodded faintly and let the paramedics help him up onto the bed and close the doors between him and Ran. As the car holding his final friend drove away, Fujimiya Ran looked back to the wreckage of the Esset building, and could feel no sense of accomplishment. Weiss, and whatever it had represented was gone, disbanded the moment Omi turned his back on them and drove away, and perhaps broken long before that.

In the glare of red and blue lights, and the shifting of many feet on uneven ground, Ran stood in the shadows, and for the first time in years, felt truly alone. Then he went over to the young woman who had informed him of Yohji's condition, requested a pair of gloves from her, and waded back into the ruins with the full mass of Kritiker to find poor young Sena's body.

-- --

Schuldig stumbled up to the hotel just as the young attendant was preparing to lock the door. Before he could even look up, Schuldig had latched mercilessly onto his mind. He forced the kid (_nineteen, just had a birthday, first job, trying to get enough money to pay for college_) to open the door once more, and half-fell through into the relative heat of the front parlor of the low-class hotel. He sent the boy around to the employee's entrance and forcibly closed fingers that were not his around a key even as he re-adjusted Brad so that he was dragging him rather than carrying his full weight. The kid brought the key over as sparks exploded behind Schuldig's eyes, his mind protesting the use of his powers in his condition. Schuldig snatched the key away from his puppet and cut it's strings. The boy fell to the floor in a heap, his memory of the past three hours erased. Schuldig, as an afterthought, implanted the thought into the boy that he should clean up the blood and dust on the floor when he woke up before he contacted anyone.

Schuldig bit back another round of nausea as he faced the last long march before he could finally remove the extra weight from his shoulders. Brad's shoes made an awful squeaking sound as Schuldig dragged him across the floor of the parlor. Fortunately the hallways were carpeted. Schuldig choked on a hacking cough, desperately fighting for breath without making too much noise. To wake anyone in this damned place was to invite trouble. By the time he reached the door with the same number as his key, tears were streaming down his face from the restrained coughing fit. Schuldig blinked rapidly with a snarl as he tried to focus and stop trembling long enough to put the key in the lock. His hand shook so badly he was having a hard enough time holding onto the thin metal tool. By the time he finally fitted the key into it's respective hole he had to lean against the door and gasp for breath, his grip on Brad more perilous than ever as his numb hands lost their articulation. Gulping down one last gasp of air, Schuldig pried the door open and barely caught his balance before slamming himself, Bradley and the door into their neighbor's wall.

Schuldig forced himself to shut the door slowly, even as he felt his body shutting down. He slid home the deadbolt, and even fiddle the useless chain into position with trembling, white fingers (he realized with distant amusement that he was in shock. Hysterical, really. Schuldig dragged Brad to the bed, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to avoid screaming at the final push of exertion. As soon as he reached the lip of the cushioning, he dropped Brad rather unceremoniously and sagged down to sit on the old, creaking, bed himself. There was much to do. The door's locks would not stop Kritiker or Esset, and he needed to rig some sort of warning that would alert him if they were to come, and Brad's wounds needed tending, as did his own. He ought to have strengthened the illusions he had forced on the unfortunate kid out front, and made sure he hadn't accidentally killed the boy; ought to have sent out a web of thought to every person he could find associated with the building to make sure no one would disturb them.

Instead, much to his consternation, Schuldig's body finally gave out on him, and he collapsed boneless onto the mattress, breath rattling in his lungs and fever burning through his body as a backlash of his abuse.


	3. Pearls That Were His Eyes

**Hm... I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. Except that I think if it and the previous chapter were put together, it might actually make a decent sized chapter! Let me know your thoughts. Oh, and sorry. I swear this story has a plot, and I'll get to it. Until then... enjoy the angst?**

**Weiss is still not mine... TT-TT**

Chapter 3—Pearls That Were His Eyes

When Schuldig first awoke after his late-night flight through the city, he had been burning up, freezing, starving and nauseous all at once. He had nearly passed out trying to sit up, and had discovered that he had done significant damage to himself. His pulse throbbed through blistered hands, and every muscle in his body burned and trembled when he moved. His nails were broken and cracked, and even as he was sitting still, head clouded and slightly confused he nearly collapsed again as his abs attempted to rest themselves after the long run and heavy burden he had endured.

Then he had looked over at Brad, and completely forgotten about any complaints he would have made. The other man was in agony, and shivering so hard it looked more like he was convulsing. Schuldig's body moved without thought or effort after that as he stripped his leader to bare skin to take in the full damage done to him. Fierce cuts, vivid red against pale skin, ran across his torso and shoulders, and livid bruises covered his entire form. The wound on his head which had caused the concussion had bruised so heavily that it reached around to trace his eyebrow. Both of his eyes were blackened, and the right one had a small piece of glass from his lost monocle lodged underneath it.

It was, in Schuldig's unique way of putting it to himself, a cluster-fuck. He didn't even have the most basic of medical supplies, and the man before him looked on the brink of death. With a touch, Schuldig found Brad's skin to be clammy, and over heated. He added fever to his mental checklist of Things Wrong With Brad. The number one place was reserved for "fucking bad judgment." For the millionth time, Schuldig wondered what the use of having a precognitive was if he couldn't keep himself out of trouble.

Cutting short his self pity, Schuldig searched himself to find what weapons he had remaining. It was a dismally limited selection. He had the dented gun he had lifted in the rubble, with only three bullets remaining, and the small knife Brad kept on his person at all times. He used the knife to cut a large chunk out of one of the under sheets on the bed. There were always too many of them anyhow, in his personal opinion. Brad gave a rasping choke and cough that spurred Schuldig out of his thoughts again. Cursing himself for loosing focus while his teammate lay dying, Schuldig quickly ran the tepid sink water over the rag, grabbed every one of the disposable soap bars, and set straight to cleaning out Brad's injuries.

It was unpleasant, difficult work. When conscious, Brad Crawford could sit silent through the most brutal of torture, but unconscious and injured, he was only a human, and the little whimpers of pain that escaped him tore at Schuldig. As he worked, it was quickly becoming obvious that his scanty equipment was severely lacking, and that his body would not hold out much longer against exhaustion and hunger without augmentation. Schuldig cursed quietly to himself, because he was running out of options, and already short on time.

With a moan, the telepath realized there was no way he could leave Brad alone, which meant he would have to call the food to him. With a grimace, Schuldig ripped open the boundaries around his mind separating himself from society, and hijacked the mind of the first take-out delivery boy he could find. It was stunningly simple to change his destination to the hotel they were hidden in. It would not be so easy to blank his mind of their presence afterwards without leaving Esset a trail.

Setting aside his concerns for the boy's arrival, Schuldig carefully cut out more strips of the sheet with shaking hands and carefully bound Brad's newly-cleaned wounds. The smell of iron and cement coating Brad was getting to him, and making him dizzier than he had been before, so as soon as the worst of the injuries were taken care of, and before he tackled the piece of glass so close to that eye, Schuldig wiped Crawford down as thoroughly and briskly as he could. It was not as difficult as it normally was to tune out Brad's nakedness. Schuldig had never gone for the bruised and battered look, and it didn't suit his leader in the slightest.

With a grimace, the telepath threw the dirtied, blood-stained rag in the trash and made a mental note to mess with the minds of a few cleaning ladies to smooth the blood-stains over. While he was between tasks, Schuldig leaned back on the bed and reflected on how very much work there was to be done. His chest ached, and his body was one radiating mass of pain. He let out a slow breath, reigning in his panic, which would do no good, and focusing briefly on his shields. They had, indeed, been damaged slightly by his misuse of his powers, and were leaking in the anxiety of the extremely pregnant woman next door. Schuldig mended the imaginary walls with a quick, practiced hand, and felt an immediate release of some of the tension. He could empathize with the woman to some degree. His everything hurt too.

Wearily, he stood once more and covered Brad with the thick, if old, comforter atop the bed. The man's color was still bad, but removing the dust had made a significant improvement. Schuldig was slightly more confident that the man would survive now that he could see his real coloration. He couldn't resist brushing the messy hair from Brad's face with a gentle hand, a faint smile touching his lips. It was no secret that Schuldig loved Brad, as much as he loved anything, and he had truly been afraid. He stroked his hand down a pale cheek, and watched the older man turn into it with a slight, rusty sigh.

When the someone knocked on the door, Schuldig jumped so hard he almost fell off the bed. A quick scan showed the delivery boy standing outside impatiently, laden with cheap Chinese food. Schuldig made sure his temporary gun was safely stowed in his belt before answering the knock. He made sure to have a firm grasp on the pimpled teen's consciousness before he opened the door fully. The kid would never remember seeing him. Schuldig relieved him of the food he carried and all the cash in his wallet. Out of habit, he took the credit card too, though he didn't plan to use it. It would be too easily traced. As he closed the door in the kid's face, he implanted a suggestion that he should go pick a fight, then remember only getting mugged. Well, Schuldig mentally amended, he would remember getting mugged if he survived.

Schuldig sat back on the bed, opened the first of six to-go containers, and began preparing for the long list of tasks ahead of him in the best way he could: eating lukewarm lo-mein.

-- --

Mamoru Taketori was an instantaneous success. He hardly even had to try. The public ate his story up. He was rich, handsome, and alone, the three things people loved most. He smiled for the cameras, took on an appropriately dark look when anyone asked him about his father's assassination, and laughed on the inside at how easy it was. At first, he had felt some guilt for leaving the remnants of Weiss to their own devices, but as each of them had gone their separate ways, and he had maintained silence it had gotten easier. The only one of them that would have really tried to keep him as Omi was still in the hospital, lost in his own mind.

The thought of Yohji still brought a distant sting to Mamoru's heart, but the man was better off without the memories of what he had gone through, and all of them knew it. That was why Ken had locked himself away in a prison rather than try to bring their Yohji back, and why Ran had disappeared from the blonde's bedside the moment the new Asuka stepped forward to love him. Even Mamoru didn't know where Ran had gone after that.

The only thing to upset the perfect fake life he had crafted for himself was Nagi Naoe, the young man who had been saved by Omi Tsukiono, and still drew what remained of Mamoru's alter-ego to the surface. Often, when Mamoru called Nagi in to speak with him, what he had intended to be a brief mission debriefing or meeting turned into passionate kisses that had nothing to do with business, and everything to do with linking the young telekinetic to his humanity. Omi had discovered very early in his friendship with the boy that Nagi was shattered on many levels, and had set himself to healing a lifetime of hurts in his new friend. He had come remarkably far, but Mamoru was quickly peeling away they scabs his former self had created.

In Mamoru's mind, which seemed to conveniently shut down when the handsome paranormal was nearby, the risk of these trysts was becoming too high. He had too many people working too closely with him to risk a scandal now. Being found lip-locked with another man would definitely cause a ruckus. Something inside him rebelled fiercely at the notion of excluding Nagi from his parody of a life, but the risk to the game he was playing was too great, so Mamoru took care of it. He had one of his secretaries phone his lover's private number and tell him that he was no longer a friend to Kritiker.

The entire downtown of Tokyo experienced a slight, unexplainable earthquake that day, but the newspapers reported only one man was injured cutting himself while he was shaving. There was a man wounded much more deeply, but no normal human on the planet could have found him. For all Kritiker could tell, Nagi Naoe disappeared off the face of the earth that day.

Free of his final distraction, Mamoru surrounded himself with work and powerful allies. Though he started out on the straight and narrow, he quickly discovered how easy it was to stop caring about morals in the face of simple corruption. The stronger his allies, the stronger he felt. Esset had always been the best of allies, and they had been keeping an eye on young, vulnerable Mamoru for quite some time.

-- --

Aya Fujimiya was the epitome of what every girl her age should be. She went to school, and was never late, she did all her homework, was friendly and open, and even held down a part-time job at a little flower shop. If every once in a while she balked from a reminder of the things she couldn't remember, no one held it against her. She was a little shy around older men, and showed a rather inexplicable distaste for all things German, but aside from a few new quirks, she was the same simple girl she had been all those years ago when she had fallen into her coma.

Anyone forced to observe her would have reported that it was the dullest assignment they had ever been handed, but no one was forcing Ran. He watched her with all his assassin's skill and none of the intent, both day and night. It made him feel sick inside to follow her so closely, but he couldn't bring himself to risk leaving her for too long. If something else happened while he wasn't there, he wasn't sure he'd be able to save her this time. And besides, even as masochistic as he was, even Ran felt that he'd lost enough recently.

If Aya noticed him, she never acknowledged the presence of a second shadow behind her. She was busy catching up on all that she had missed, and though her missing brother was never far from her thoughts, he was no longer the first thing she thought about each morning, or the last thing at night. That situation had neatly reversed itself. As Ran's obsession with watching over his baby sister grew, he couldn't help but get involved in her life in little ways. If she forgot to turn the water off at home before heading out to school, it would be off when she returned. If she lost a shoe, and had to wear a spare pair out, the missing twin would be neatly in its place when she returned.

Aya chalked it up to her recently increasing distraction. Some feeling of uneasiness pulled at her constantly from the corners of her awareness, and made her loose focus even more than other teenage girls prone to flights of fancy. Though no one else paid it any mind, Ran noticed, and worried. It was, after all, what he was best at. He had become all but a professional worrier in matters pertaining to Aya over the past few years. It had been a source of constant amusement for Yohji and Ken, and had given even Omi cause to smile once or twice.

When Manx approached him outside the Cat's Eye on a busy afternoon, Ran knew immediately something was about to change, because Manx did not break cover for any reason, and walking up to an ex-operative in the middle of the street was firmly in cover-breaking ground.

"Ran," she greeted absently, glancing around the street. Ran merely stared at her incredulously over the rims of his sunglasses. Manx chose to ignore the look and towed him behind her to a nook of a side street not far from the shop. When she turned to him again, it was not the gentle protector of Aya that faced him, but the stony woman who had presented them with tapes showing who they were to murder. Ran removed his sunglasses and scrutinized her.

"Should you be talking to me?" he asked, voice calm and low. The woman heaved a sigh and shifted her weight onto one hip, glancing him over briefly.

"You never change, Ran Fujimiya." She accused softly, all traces of the sensual purr she used to charm strangers gone from her voice. "Here I am sticking my neck out to help you, and you're worried about whether I'm breaking the Assassin's Code. Of which there isn't one." Ran's gaze never wavered. He was not one for small talk, and found the idea of being pulled away from his watch to discuss something so trivial as his personality deeply annoying. Manx appeared to pick up on his reticence, because she continued with barely a pause.

"Listen," she muttered, "I thought you needed to know. Omi…"

"Taketori." Ran corrected with venom in his voice. Manx heaved a sigh.

"We'll compromise on Mamoru. The point is, not everything is going as well as it seems inside Kritiker. A few of our more seasoned agents are worried that Mamoru may be falling in with… the wrong crowd." When she was greeted with yet another blank stare at this information, Manx had to smile. "Yes, you go ahead and scowl, Ran, but I know you. Whether he's Omi or not, Mamoru is still close to you. All I'm asking is that you consider giving him some support."

When Ran didn't respond, she added one final plea. "I'm not telling you this on Omi's behalf." She murmured, eyes suddenly distant and sad. "He'd fire me if he found out. It's only, there's already been talk of the company of mutiny, and I don't want to hand anyone a tape of Mamoru."

Manx turned out of the alley and walked back to her job as Aya's guard, but Ran stayed rooted in spot for a long time before finally urging himself into motion again. He did not go back to his stalker-esque lookout point across from the flower shop, but instead went back to the small apartment he had rented, packed away what few things he owned, and got ready to go back to Kritiker. Omi might have been dead to him, and Weiss might have been disbanded, but as far as Ran was concerned, Mamoru was a close second, and therefore still worthy of his help.

-- --

Brad opened his eyes to poor lighting and a furious telepath. He looked around briefly at the cheap, dingy wallpaper and sparse decorations, decided he was not quite in hell, and pulled in a tortured breath.

"So you saved Kudoh." He murmured. His voice was weaker than he had thought it would be, but understandable enough. Talking was an agony, though. His voice felt like it was being squeezed through sandpaper rather than his throat.

Schuldig stared blankly at him, relief and rage struggling for dominance. A thin smile crossed Crawford's face, but it didn't reach his golden eyes. They remained dilated and distant. With another slow intake of air, Brad worked up the energy to speak again.

"I'm sorry Schuldig," he said softly, a twist of discomfort coming across his face, though whether it was from pain or the apology eluded Schuldig, "I'll have to rely on you from here."

"You knew." Schuldig accused softly. Brad gazed blankly at him, and his silence was his answer. Schuldig turned to leave the room, but couldn't quite bring himself to. So he stood halfway to the door, with his back to the bed, staring at the garish hotel walls until he was certain he could speak without screaming.

"How much did you see?" he asked softly. When Crawford didn't respond, Schuldig turned to find him sleeping once more, breath rasping evenly in and out and brows furrowed. The telepath could have simply taken it from Crawford's mind, but the last time he had attempted to take such matters into his own hands had not turned out well.

Instead, he sunk down to sit on the edge of the mattress and put his head in his hands. It seemed that since he had entered the Epitaph building he had not ceased being exhausted. With reluctance, he widened his range of perception and began the strenuous trail of maintaining the fallacies he had implanted in the hotel staff. It was dull work, and could have waited, but Schuldig found it much easier to bear that tedium than ponder how much of their current situation Brad had known, and for how long he had been aware of it.


	4. A Current Under Sea

**A/N: First off, Narijima... I... you... the... THANK YOU! That was the most amazing review I have ever received, and I hope you like this chapter, because it's definitely yours. *hugs* It's good to see your name lighting up my screen again!**

**On another note, this is the first chapter that doesn't skip around from PoV to PoV like a schizophrenic CockerDoodle! (Which I'm sure everyone knows is a Cocker Spaniel/ Poodle cross.) Enjoy, and please leave me a review! All of you who have done so have given me amazing incentive to continue this fic, but the more the merrier!**

**Oh, and I still own nothing except the hat on my head and the gay cowboy shirt. Oh, and let's play spot the bad guy! Okay everybody, spot the bad guy in this chapter and give me your guesses!**

Chapter 4—A Current Under Sea

The tricky thing about precognition was that the future was never clear cut. When Brad had 'seen' the attack on Epitaph, he saw it split off with each choice he and everyone else in the building made, like a fractal. Most of those paths were invisible to him, or appeared on the surface to be exactly the same. Brad didn't try to make sense of it as he watched. He simply imprinted it all in his mind to sift through later. By remaining calm, he remained in control, and the visions did not overwhelm him.

He almost lost his cool when Nagi appeared in the scene playing through his mind. He had rather been hoping he would get to watch the damned Fujimiya finally expire, but the sight of bullets stopping in midair made his blood run cold. Nagi had gotten more powerful. Twenty highly trained agents fell twisted to the ground before him.

The vision skipped forward to the inside, and it chose to follow Schuldig. That instantly made Brad uneasy. It meant that once events started, they would be out of his hands. In his mind's eye he saw Schuldig confront and antagonize Weiss, lips twisted in a mocking sneer. When Hidaka made a lunge for him, Schuldig sidestepped it with a laugh that became a scream as he was engulfed in flames. Even in the half-world of visions, Brad could hear his death-cry inside his mind. It was not the first time he had watched his most faithful friend perish in a vision, and he knew that before long other options would present themselves. The death took too long, though. Even the men of Weiss looked disturbed.

When Schuldig's screaming stopped, the vision skipped again, pausing briefly to show Nagi, so stunned by Schuldig's death that he let the woman he was fighting gain control, or to show Brad himself trembling with weakness he would have liked to consider himself above while a long haired man cackled at his pain.

Crawford had all but tuned the vision out by this point, and it took him a moment to realize something was wrong. Or at least something was different.

It was a lesser known fact of precognition that no seer could see outside things that influenced him personally. When the vision started following the Weiss boys rather than focusing on him or Nagi after Schuldig's death, Brad felt the scales of fate shifting. Somehow, the men of Weiss were now linked to him.

As his future self died, the vision faded and started again.

This time it was over faster, as Brad lost control and called out to Nagi while he stood with Weiss. It distracted the boy just long enough for a sniper to take out the young Taketori. Brad must have been next, because the vision faded again.

It went on in different variations of death or unacceptable injury, usually quick flashes of decisions that changed everything and nothing. The difference between dying on the top floor and dying on the bottom was negligible as far as Brad was concerned. The next longer version of the reality caught his attention though.

The next series of events showed Brad listening while Esset's 'clone' of him bargained for his loyalty. And this Brad agreed, if Esset swore to spare Schuldig and Nagi. He watched while the young men of Weiss were slaughtered, and something about the tone with which the vision presented this implied that he ought to have cared. In that future, when Schuldig saw Brad with the enemy, he killed as many of the agents as he could with his telepathic reach then met Brad's eyes and ended himself rather than being taken back to Esset's fold. The vision showed him that Esset kept their promise, re-instated him, and allowed him a luxurious, empty life with a brainwashed Nagi at his side.

Brad forced the thoughts from his head. It was technically one of many options before him, but he vastly preferred the death he had viewed previously to that life.

The next scenario had an air of finality to it. His last option. Brad watched the proceedings with a scowl, because he had a feeling he knew where this was going. He watched himself fall unconscious after his fight, watched Schuldig save Kudoh, and then Brad himself. (The vision split off briefly, and showed him that had Kudoh not been saved, Kritiker would have caught up to them.) When his vision followed Kudoh to the hospital after the attack, Brad knew that the era of Schwartz was coming to an end. He watched the blonde awaken empty of memories, and the decent of Mamoru Taketori. Then the vision became suddenly odd.

The images faded out as his future self awoke in a small hotel, but did not end. There was darkness surrounding him, in the middle of it Schuldig crouched, holding another Brad Crawford. This version of himself lay limp in Schuldig's arms, with his eyes gouged out, bloodied sockets gaping open and oozing. He gasped in air through cracked and bleeding lips.

As Brad watched, the image of Schuldig began to crack. First his arms started to crumble and wither like logs in a fire, then hairline fractures flew across his skin, segmenting his face. The vision of Schuldig snarled at the pain of it and held the blinded Crawford still closer, shattering body trembling.

From the shadows, another form stumbled. It was Nagi, naked and clutching his chest. A fountain of blood leaked from beneath the boy's hands, and he slumped to the ground at Schuldig's side, still living, but with a gaping hole in his heart.

The Schuldig's pained grimace turned into a manic smile, then choking, frenzied laughter, falling from crackling lips like screams. Just as Brad was sure he would have to watch the man crumble in this twisted parody of a vision, two hands clamped down firmly on the telepath's shoulders, and the erosion of skin halted. Schuldig's laughter stilled in his throat, and the gaps nearest the stranger's hands filled in slowly. The face of Kudoh Yohji appeared behind the redhead, sad smile firmly in place, but a fondness in his eyes. Schuldig calmed, and shifted Brad's weight slightly, reaching out to Nagi with one ruined hand.

Another beat him to it, and Brad recognized the Taketori boy as the one helping Nagi to sit up. The wound in his chest started inching closed. As two more shadows approached and the other Crawford stirred, the vision world lurched and their forms disappeared back into the dark.

A bladed pendulum straight from an Edger Allen Poe story replaced them. It inched slowly downwards, a quiet rush of a threat, then exploded into a shower of cards. When the cards cleared, Brad caught a glimpse of a shadowed, feminine figure, pale skin stark against the blackness and a pair of reflective cat's eyes shining from her face. And then the vision was over.

The final option had been the only one Brad could choose, though the intimidating abstract vision following it had left Brad shaken. Now, as he woke again in the run-down hotel, he knew he would get to find out what it meant. He opened his eyes slowly and let out a gusty sigh. The world was blurred without his glasses, and his eyes were sticky after his long rest. An intense orange blur to his left alerted him of Schuldig's presence, and Brad forced his muddled brain to focus on the redhead.

Schuldig sat hunched into himself on the side of the bed, glancing over his shoulder at the supposedly asleep precog. He quickly looked elsewhere once he noticed the man awake and staring at him. Brad's gaze was drawn to the telepath's well-muscled arms, bracing him against the mattress. His left elbow was messily bandaged, and appeared swollen. The skin around the bandages had a red tinge.

"That elbow's infected." Brad rasped softly, shifting where he lay with a soft rustle of scratchy sheets. Schuldig jerked a little when he was addressed, then tucked his chin.

"No shit, really?" he drawled, "I thought it was just inflamed and puss-filled because it loved me." An edge of fury colored his voice. Brad ignored the scathing sarcasm with practiced ease and heaved himself up and back to lean against the wall in a mostly-upright position. Schuldig still kept his back turned.

"Go get something for me to clean it up with." The precog ordered calmly, inspecting he strips of cloth protecting his own wounds. They were in much better condition than Schuldig's, as expected.

Schuldig stood too fast and slumped back on the bed, skin going pale as his weakness caught up to him once more. Brad didn't comment as Schuldig cursed softly to himself and briefly raised a hand to his head. Brad mirrored the movement, bringing his hand up to inspect his temple, and found what felt like a piece of the hotel's under sheet wrapped carefully over the slice inflicted on him by the strange 'clone,' and the gash where half the roof had come down on his head.

Schuldig stood again, more slowly, and went to retrieve one of the fresh washcloths 'requisitioned' from the cleaning staff. Brad kept an eye on his stiff progression across the room and wondered if Schuldig had managed to pull every muscle in his legs. He walked like a zombie. When the redhead disappeared into the small bathroom, Brad let himself let out a pained breath. He was in agony, but refused to show it to the man who had saved his life at the cost of his own strength. Everywhere he was in contact with anything heavier than the sheets, his bruised and damaged body screamed at the touch. Even the bed beneath him was a curse. He struggled to categorize his wounds, and inspect them, but couldn't work up the energy to move his hand enough to feel them over now that Schuldig wasn't watching. It was a mixed blessing that Brad disliked being weak in front of the other man. It would give him the strength to help him, but would cause him more pain.

Schuldig returned, eyes still averted, and silently handed Brad a warm, wet cloth and a set of the small, all but useless soaps the hotel provided, then walked to a folded sheet on the dresser and cut a strip off using a knife Brad recognized as his own. The usual grace displayed by deadly man was entirely absent. He moved like a sleepwalker, with a deadened expression and a stiffness in his joints. Crawford couldn't see well, but he still picked up the shake of Schuldig's hands. When he returned with the makeshift bandages he sank to the bed with a sigh. Brad placed the damaged arm on his own lap and started unwinding the tattered wrappings.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" he questioned calmly. The rasp in his voice was distracting and somewhat worrisome, but he had to ensure the health and safety of the only guard he had first. Schuldig heaved a dramatic sigh.

"You've been unconscious for nearly a week, and you're asking me when the last time I ate was." He griped. Brad bit back a smile and gave his telepath a sharp look, peeling the bandage away from the sticky wound. Schuldig let out a sharp yelp, then looked sheepish at the embarrassing noise.

"I wasn't burning any calories. I was unconscious." Brad said firmly, unwrapping the next level of the bandage with a sickening wet sound. Schuldig looked slightly green.

"Yeah, sure, Crawford." Schuldig muttered. Brad removed the final section of wrapping with slightly more force, making the telepath jump and glare at him. "Ow! Yesterday, okay? Geeze. I already commandeered a pizza truck while I was getting that." He nodded to the damp towel Brad was applying soap to, but didn't get to finish his thought because his burning arm was suddenly under Brad Crawford's less-than-gentle care. The telepath let out a long, low hiss of pain as the sticky gunk trapped inside the wound was scrubbed out, and he leaned back to let his head make contact with the wall to steady himself against it. Brad let out a little grunt of annoyance at the state of Schuldig's arm and his lack of nutrition, but the redhead was as adept at toning out Brad's disapproval as the precog was at ignoring sarcasm.

They sat together in silence save for shaking breaths and murmured curses of pain from a certain German, for what seemed like a long while. Once Brad was satisfied that the wound was clean, he began to wrap it efficiently in the strip of sheet. Schuldig took that as his cue to start the conversation again, now that he was unlikely to be interrupted with an undignified shout of pain.

"You didn't answer my question." He pouted, slowly bending one knee to rest his chin and free hand on. Brad paused in his work to give the other man a blank stare and Schuldig let out an annoyed moan at the gaze. "You don't remember." He griped. "You never pay attention to me." Brad rolled his eyes. Schuldig's way of lightening stress generally consisted of hamming it up or playing the Captain Sexy part. Crawford preferred the ham method.

"I was unconscious, Schuldig." He said calmly. "And if I were to listen to you at all times, I have no doubt I'd be as mad as Farfarello by now." Schuldig scowled, but it looked happier than the blank face he had worn before. Brad turned back to concentrating on the makeshift bandage he was wrapping with shaking fingers. It didn't help that Schuldig himself had a palsy-esque tremor running down his arm.

"Well, fine. I'll repeat it then. But make sure you're paying attention this time!" Schuldig snapped in a distant imitation of his usual obnoxious self. "How much of this did you know before hand?" Brad gave him a flat look.

"Most of it," he answered calmly, "but only up until I woke up." Schuldig looked flabbergasted by the fact that he had actually been answered. Once he got over his surprise, he started picking repetitively at the seam in his pants with his unoccupied fingers.

"And for how long did you know?" He asked, slightly more wary of the answer now that he knew Brad might reply. The hands wrapping his arm in new bandages paused as Crawford tried to remember.

"I believe… that it was roughly a year and a half ago." He replied before finishing off his bandage and leaving Schuldig to ponder the implications of that. Schuldig, however, had much more important things to do than ponder, such as snatch his arm back from its tormenter and cradle it against his chest. The silence that fell suited them both fine, as they waited for the arrival of Schuldig's stolen pizza carryout.

Brad was more tense than he had been in years. Though his body was limp from exhaustion, his mind was keyed up with stress. It had been ages since he'd had no solid information to work with regarding what move to make next, but no visions had come to him since the accident, and the vague implications of the dream-like vision following Epitaph continued to elude him. Though as he looked at Schuldig, he could see how someone might view the man as fragile at the moment. He looked like death warmed over, and appeared to have lost some body mass over the past week.

With a shudder, Brad wondered how literal the image of him shattering was intended to be, then paused as he remembered what had halted it. He glanced over to study his partner's profile as carefully as possible, and remembered a purring voice comparing Kudoh's thoughts to honey all those many years ago. Schuldig looked defeated, leaning pale and drawn against the wall beside him. As though sensing the golden gaze resting on him, Schuldig slanted his bright blue eyes over to meet Brad's and their gazes locked, a silent communication passing between them that had nothing to do with telepathy and everything to do with worried eyes and shared pain.

The pizza delivery arrived at the door and Schuldig reluctantly stood again, choking back a groan for Crawford's sake, and blanking out the pizza boy's memory. This time he just stuck the cash for the pizza in the kid's pocket and shoved a memory of a fat balding man who wouldn't tip into his mind, then sent him on his way. He bore the pizza back to the bed and flopped down again, opening the first of three boxes as he sat next to Brad. The older man sighed and rolled his eyes as the redhead all but inhaled his first piece, despite his earlier claims that he wasn't hungry, before snagging a slice of the cheese-covered monstrosity for himself and talking himself into finishing it despite the nausea brought on in the wake of the concussion.

The first pizza was entirely devoured by the time they spoke again. Schuldig was reclining on his elbows, looking far more relaxed, and Brad was stretched out on the bed beside him, allowing his body the rest it so desperately needed. Schuldig's slight quivering was magnified by the mattress and allowed Brad to feel it quite plainly from his place on the far side of the bed. Both of the paranormals were fast healers, but Schuldig had stretched too far in his daringly idiotic rescue, and was certainly feeling the consequences.

Much to Brad's surprise, he suffered his hurts in relative silence, even laying there on the elbow that was no doubt still burning with infection. He caught the bright blue gaze resting on him with concealed worry and realized that this was Schuldig being protective. It was something the redhead did not have many chances to do, as he was usually the one who needed protecting. Brad found it somewhat charming, but also knew without a doubt that he would stress Schuldig to the breaking point if this continued.

With a sudden stab of urgency, Brad reached out for the visions which almost always answered his call (and sometimes invited themselves). For a moment, there was nothing, and then Crawford was suddenly assaulted by a feeling of unease so intense that it made Schuldig jump. There was something vast just beyond Brad's reach, but when he dove deeper into his power's core, fresh pain descended on him like a storm, and the world went dark.

He came to with Schuldig screaming his name and a bruising grip tight on his arms. The telepath's eyes were wild and over bright. Brad took a deep breath to question Schuldig on what just occurred when he was interrupted by the man slumping over his chest and yanking Brad up into his arms. The precog froze.

"Whatever you did, don't do it again." Schuldig moaned against his neck. "I thought I was going to loose you." The telepath's breaths were hard and fast, and Brad lifted a hand to place it on Schuldig's back

"What happened?" He questioned quietly.

"I don't know," Schuldig whispered in return, briefly broadcasting an image of Brad, eyes rolled back in his head and screaming. "Whatever it was, you were nearly gone." Brad shuddered, because Schuldig did not exaggerate things like that, and pulled Schuldig back onto the bed to ease the shaking in his shoulders. The redhead did not release him, but it did ease the shudders running through him. Brad very slowly wrapped his arms around Schuldig as well, and lay against him, wondering how much of the trembling was Schuldig's and how much was his own, until they both fell into sleep.


	5. White Towers

**A/N: Apologies for the delay and the shortness! School is once more eating my brain. I shouldn't have taken any writing intensive classes... Anyhow! I hope you enjoy! We're back to whiplash POV switches for this chapter. Lemme know any questions, comments, thoughts, or problems!**

**Weiss Kreuz is not mine.  
**

Chapter 5-- White Towers

Yohji Kudoh had a beautiful place to live, with a stunningly attractive young lady waiting for him, and a comfortable bed, and one sleek young cat, and a bright future laid out ahead of him if he chose to take it, despite his lack of memory. What he didn't have was any desire to go back to it yet. Instead, he was sitting in the nicest dirty bar he could find, chatting with the bartender about beers he could not for the life of him remember trying, and instantly knew he would dislike.

It happened a lot to him now, that he would react to things he didn't even recognize. He had instantly vetoed Asuka's request for Chinese take out two nights ago, telling her he had no stomach for the stuff before he realized he had never tried it. That he remembered, at least. Every time something like that happened, Asuka would give him a beaming smile and say it must be his memories returning, and he would see the tears glistening behind her grin and know she did not want him to remember.

It was not always innocuous either. The other night he had been cuddled on the sofa with his girl perched in his lap when a helicopter flew over the house and he freaked out. He didn't remember exactly what happened, only that he had been certain they were coming for him, and Asuka would be in the line of fire. Once he had calmed down and apologized profusely Asuka said she wasn't surprised it had happened. After all, he had been admitted to the hospital with unusual injuries, and she assured him that it was very normal to experience post traumatic stress after being so badly hurt. Yohji had agreed with her automatically, but could see the bruises on her arms where in his panic he had gripped her too hard, and he had wondered for the millionth time who he had been before.

Now, with the warm glow of alcohol in his blood (which he knew was a terrible idea with PTSD) he wondered how crazy Asuka had to be to take in someone like him no questions asked. If he were to regain his memory, he was very aware of the fact that he could be very dangerous. In fact, he was sure he would be. There was something in the tendencies his body had retained despite the damage in his mind-- the way he opened doors without exposing himself to the view of whoever was outside, or how he reached to his wrist when he was startled, though he wasn't sure what he expected to find there. He let out a long sigh, tapping the bar for another beer and feeling somewhat grateful that the bartender didn't try to cut him off yet. He felt like he was getting closer to something in that dark, shabby place, staring at animal heads mounted on the wall and listening to the grumbles of lonely older men.

What he felt sneaking up on him in that claustrophobic room never struck, and he found himself hailing a taxi and trying to remember how to get to the house. It took him five wrong tries to get it right, and he tipped the cab driver extensively to make up for the trouble. The driver gave him an understanding smirk and made a comment about wanting to make sure the lady was asleep before going inside, and Yohji laughed engagingly. When he slipped silently inside ("God," Asuka would have said, "how do you move so quietly, Yohji?") Asuka was asleep on the couch with the lamp still on and tear stains on her cheeks. He stared at her for a moment, feeling slightly guilty when he saw his terse note crumpled in her hand. He stumbled just a little as he flicked off the light for her and headed to the bedroom.

He pulled off his shoes, managing not to wipe out in the process through sheer luck, and collapsed into the empty bed, alone for the first time in weeks. He closed his eyes, wishing distantly that Asuka had been awake for him to romance and sliding a hand down his own chest, eyes distant with drunken lust. He closed his eyes with a needy sigh, and recalled stunningly brilliant blue eyes.

It was one of few memories he had, and he cherished the vision. A gorgeous foreign man with hair like fire bent over him, face covered in sweat and dust and a downward twist to his lips, breaths coming heavy and fast. He had said something, but Yohji couldn't hear him, and his vision had been too blurred from the explosion to follow his lip movements in the memory. Then the man had walked away, a long-limbed grace to his stride, and a tension in his shoulders. But Yohji didn't let his daydream end like that. He busied himself imagining that face without dirt or pain. He tried to imagine a smile on those full lips, but his brain supplied a wry smirk that fit his mouth like a glove. He had tried to fit a voice to him, but had never been able to, so the vision remained mute, bright eyes sparkling with life and narrowed in amusement. Yohji wondered how that hair would feel on his skin; wondered how that sweat would taste, and wondered why he had never been as interested in Asuka as he was in this blurred mystery man.

He wondered what it had been like to come out of the closet in the life he lived before this one, because lying there, touching his own warm flesh to the vision of a man (god what would he look like with that shirt off) he knew there was no way he was straight. He imagined another pair of hands on him, envisioned muscles under pale skin. If he ever found out where that man came from, he would have to go there to see if there were more like him. He came silently, biting his lip to hold back a low moan and hoping Asuka wouldn't wake up.

As he came down from the orgasmic high and lay sated on the bed that was not his, in the house that was not his, wiggling out of clothes that were not his, Yohji realized what it was he had been trying to all day: he was not in love with Asuka, and he probably never would be. He had never even spoken to the stranger who had saved him from that wreckage, and yet he felt that he knew that man better than he knew the woman who had taken him under her wing months ago. He couldn't even remember her favorite color. As he lay there in comfort with his mind whirling under the alcohol haze, he realized he would not be staying with Asuka much longer, and wondered what kind of work he could find.

-- --

Ken was enjoying prison more than he had intended himself to. It was strangely satisfying to be surrounded by criminals like himself (though truthfully he doubted any of them had been as vicious, violent, or successful as he had been in his time as an assassin) and he had accidentally befriended the guards. It didn't make him popular with the other inmates, but that meant he got more chances to fight, so all in all, he was finding life pretty good. Except for the three people who should have been beside him.

Yohji, Omi, and Ran were never far from his thoughts. He missed the familial banter that ran through their group, and the absolute assuredness that any of them would die for the others. But that feeling had been slowly diminishing for years. Yohji had grown distant, a victim to his own memories and Ran's reclusive tendencies. Omi and Ken had often hoped that the two older members of Weiss would find solstice in each other, and they did for a while, but what love they shared was not the romantic type. if once in a while they would come out of the same room in the morning, it meant nothing but that they had needed someone. Eventually, even those meetings stopped.

So Ken missed Ran and Yohji like brothers grown apart, but he mourned for Omi, his gentle, young, tormented friend, who he had not been able to save. They all should have seen the changes in Omi for what they were, he thought, and not assumed that it was age and maturity changing their partner. Ken still couldn't get over the fact that Omi had been meeting up with a member of Schwartz behind their backs, and his mind replayed the affection in Omi's eyes when he looked at the young villain. They were the eyes of a smitten man.

Ken heaved a sigh from his hard bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He had heard that Yohji was moved in with Asuka (the new one, he reminded himself, wondering how the hell many Asukas were in Japan) and settled in nicely. He wondered faintly if Yohji was actually in love, or if it was simply reflex that drove him to Asuka this time. Then he scolded himself for being unfair. he was truly glad Yohji was going to be able to live out his life as a normal person. Being an assassin had never really fit him. He was too soft on women to enjoy the jobs.

Ran hadn't told him where he was going. He had been the only one of them to keep in contact with him, though, and Ken appreciated that, especially since he knew how hard this was for his recalcitrant friend. Ran's letters were brief and concise, basically intended to let Ken know that all of them were still alive. Ken missed being out there in the world, knowing he was doing good through evil, but could not reconcile himself to working under the new Taketori regime. The new version of Omi made him sick at his stomach. It was disgusting to see their beloved protégé gone so far to the wrong side. Every time he looked at Mamoru all he could remember was the stunned, gleeful expression on young Omi's face when Ran had told him he was no Taketori. It had been hard for Ran to escape his hatred of that name and accept Omi, and Omi had been so happy for it at the time. Then he threw that absolution back in Ran's face. It was unforgivable.

So Ken sat in prison, waiting, and having absolutely no idea what he was waiting for, and he fought the other inmates, and joked with the guards, and received no visitors. He did mindless work all day to occupy himself, and remembered days in the spotlight with green grass under his feet and all eyes on him cheering. And he wanted a chance to reclaim at least one of his ruined lives.

His chance would not come for a long time yet.

-- --

"Can't you not die faster" Schuldig whined, splayed across the foot of the bed on which Brad was resting. The precog did not dignify that with a response, instead settling for kicking Schuldig's legs off of his own feet. The telepath only rolled over just slightly out of his reach and stretched like a cat. Within four months of Brad's awakening, the telepath had for all appearances gone from sickly and broken to his normal, obnoxious self, healing with his uncanny speed. That, unfortunately, left him once more looking after an increasingly annoyed Crawford while itching for entertainment. He had enjoyed hunting down a new pair of glasses for his boss (even though he'd been forced to do it twice when he brought Brad a pair of bright red thick frames the first time) and it was amusing finding them new, increasingly ritzy places to sleep and live. They had left the cheap hotel within a week, and since then had lived in the apartment of a vacationing couple, an extremely overblown luxury motel, and now were hidden away in a condo while the owner took a Schuldig style "unexpected vacation."

Underneath the bravado, Brad smelled a rat. Schuldig had a bad habit of acting when he believed it was required of him, and Brad would not quickly forget the metaphorical image of what might become of his partner in crime, and despite his bravado, it was becoming more and more obvious that something was off with Schuldig. He jumped at any startling noise, and reached for the gun he kept in his belt. He had not gotten himself a new gun, and had kept the twisted thing from the rubble of Epitaph, only buying himself new bullets. Brad had not asked what significance the gun held for him.

Beyond that, Schuldig's powers were obviously under strain. He was constantly suffering migraines and nosebleeds as he slowly worked himself to the bone. He would not take pain killers, so Brad did not offer them. Once or twice Schuldig had allowed Brad to talk him into lying down and sleeping it off, but most days he stayed awake, gaze flicking from doors to windows and pacing their current hiding place like a restless cat.

Though Brad let him do as he wish, just watching him was maddening. He was quite pleased that, though obnoxious, Schuldig was staying in roughly one place at the moment. His movements were incredibly distracting, and was attempting to concentrate on what needed doing. It was difficult, as he had not experienced a vision since that fateful day at Epitaph, and going against Esset without foresight was inadvisable at best. He had only the clues laid out for him in the sickening, cryptic dream-vision. So he made his plan the same way he did everything: decisively. If nothing else, it would get Schuldig away from him for a brief while.

Just as the redhead was about to moan another complaint, Crawford's smooth, commanding voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Schuldig" he said calmly, "you are going to go find Kudoh." Schuldig frowned briefly, running over the words in his head, then sat up slowly, looking at Brad in confusion.

"Kudoh as in the killer blonde?" he asked blankly, one eyebrow raising at what must have been a poorly delivered joke. Crawford met his gaze from behind new glasses, eyes level and relaxed, and Schuldig felt a brief rush of excitement that then turned into apprehension. He recognized that look, and it was not a Brad Crawford gaze. It was the level stare of Oracle.

"The very same. Kudoh Yohji."

"At the risk of sounding hopeful," Schuldig wheedled, turning away slightly to look at Brad from the corners of his eyes "Do I get to fight him?" Crawford smirked slowly, glasses flashing.

"No, Schuldig. He won't know who you are, or who he used to be. And you are to befriend him." Schuldig swallowed nervously, because his shields were down, and there was no humor in Brad's thoughts, only a relaxed finality.

"And you...?" he asked, feeling slightly sick.

"Will be moving along on my own. Be ready to go in the morning."

No matter what followed, and how many disasters he faced from that moment on, Brad knew he would always cherish the mental image of Schuldig's mouth falling open and his eyes widening, struck speechless by the order. Pleased with his work, he leaned back and closed his eyes contentedly, as Schuldig let out a great moan and fell backwards onto the bed so heavily it made Brad's glasses half fall off, and the older man couldn't clamp down the chuckle that rose from his chest at his sophomoric partner's antics. He only hoped his intuition had not let them down now when they needed it most.


	6. Hurry Up Please Its Time

**A/N: So... sorry for that last chapter. And this one. I'm bad at transitions. Promise the plot will be here soon! There is one! (maybe....) In any case, enjoy! This one's nothing special, but it is necessary to the story. Many thanks to Rakuengaki for beta-ing! She's got some amazing stories going herself. You guys should definitely check them out!  
**

**Still don't own WK!  
**

Chapter 6—HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

Gnarled spires of metal twisted up out of the rubble-covered ground, stark against the golden sunset. The ruins of Epitaph were abandoned at this point in the day, the clean up crews abandoning their search for body parts until the next morning. Kritiker's guards lined the perimeter of the disaster area, heavily armed and intensely alert.

There was one area of the rubble the crews had not yet been brave enough to face. The ground was too unstable, and the steel supports towering in the sky groaned in any wind. The body parts reaching above the first layer of debris there remained undisturbed by "rescuers" and were rotting slowly, picked away at by carrion and maggots as nature reclaimed them. In the midst of the destruction, a feminine figure crouched, hair pulled by the light breeze and nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Too many bodies," she huffed, straightening from her place on the ground. Her voice was deep and flat, with a definitive edge that only leader's voices carried. "I need to be somewhere where their scents are clearer." Another figure, long and lean, detached itself from the shadow of one of the steel beams and flounced to the first woman's side.

"Awww, does the bad smell hurt puppy's nose?" the new girl crooned, reaching up a hand to ruffle her comrade's hair. She never made contact as the shorter of the two strode out of the carnage, footing sure and steady on the shifting rubble.

"Crea," she gritted, shooting a glance over her shoulder, "attempt to remember your place in this mission. Keep an eye out for those Kritiker bastards and stay out of my way." Crea flicked a long strand of hair from her face and heaved a heavy sigh, stumbling after her team's leader, having difficulty finding sure footing in the fading light.

"How can I keep watch? Not all of us can see in the dark you know." She whined, voice pitched high simply to annoy the other woman. "Seriously, Dolch, can we call it quits for the night?" Dolch did not reply, pausing and lifting her head to the sky, eyes falling half closed and breathing in deeply. It did not escape Crea's notice that the afternoon light reflected off the shorter woman's eyes in a distinctly inhuman way. She took it as a hint to shut the hell up.

In silence, they strode through the wreckage, pausing at every blood stain for Dolch to take long, testing breaths before sighing out another negative. The moon was high enough in the sky that even Crea could see where she was stepping by the time Dolch let out a triumphant bark of laugher. Crea closed the distance between them in less than an eye blink (sarcastically congratulating herself for breaking the world record for a hundred meter dash) and looked down at the pool of blood Dolch was kneeling in. It was congealed and dry, in ugly, flaking lumps, but Dolch lifted a swab of it to her tongue and licked it off, looking satisfied with herself.

"Eew," said Crea, "I really hope Crawford doesn't have Aids." She smirked as she said it, reveling in the wild-eyed look her leader had taken on. Dolch's skin glowed in the moonlight and she stood to her full height (shorter than Crea, but with an undefinable power about her) and allowed a slow smirk to slide across her lips.

"I've got the trail," she murmured, a satisfied laziness stealing over her in stark contrast with the fierce aggravation of moments before. She raised her eyes to Crea, giving her a good long look at feline eyes stuck strangely onto a human face. "Call the others. It's time to hunt down some Schwartz." With a wicked smirk, Crea pulled out her cellphone, even as she reached out a hand and stroked through Dolch's hair, pushing it back behind her ear with practiced efficiency. As the phone rang on the other side, the shape shifter turned her head and kissed Crea's palm, inhaling her sent deeply.

"And when we find them," she purred against her teammate's hand, "maybe we'll finally get that vacation time, hmmm?" Crea was so pleased by the notion that she didn't even remember to speak when the other end of the line picked up with an impatient 'hello.'

-- --

Ran was pacing his rather swanky hotel room with a snarl painted on his lips. Mamoru had refused to see him. Manx's warning for the once-Omi's safety burned in his mind, warring with his utter frustration with the boy. He had, after all, watched Omi grow up with their team, and it was another addition to a list of failures to watch the boy fall into the role of Mamoru after he had shown such promise in Weiss's golden days, before the tower collapsed and the world had gone to hell.

Ran considered calling Ken in on this. He and the fiery jock didn't always get along, but he knew Ken's feelings for the team ran deep, and that his loyalty was all but unbreakable. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the memory of Ken's face when he realized that Omi and Yohji were really gone. It had been like watching someone's world vanish out from underneath them. He was relatively certain that Ken would not return for a Taketori's sake, and he couldn't say he blamed him.

Ran stopped pacing to open the drawer of the hotel room and pull out one of the very few objects he owned that held sentimental value. It was an image of the team in front of The House of Kittens, caught after one of Yohji's thoughtlessly flirtatious moments. The blonde was sporting a red hand print on his cheek (courtesy of Manx) and was laughing uproariously. Omi's face held an indignantly amused expression as he struggled to fuss at Yohji without laughing. Ken had no such restraint, and was pointing at Yohji in absolute glee, apparently deciding that watching the blonde get turned down was the best entertainment anyone could ask for. Ran himself was standing in the background, his sister's earing still hanging from one lobe and a distance in his eyes, though he was smiling faintly at his team.

Ran hated himself in all of these pictures. He'd been lucky enough to find a new family, and had thrown it away for vengeance. He didn't regret sacrificing his normal life for Aya's sake, but he regretted not being there for his team when they needed him. He would always wonder if his distance had been the reason their team had fallen apart. He had been stunned at first to realize how very much he missed his team, but the moment he had forced himself to stop obsessing over his sister, he had realized the complete emptiness that had been left in the wake of his most recently lost family.

The worst part was that this time he'd had the power to stop it. He could have found a way to keep them together, he was sure. He was no longer the impotent young man who had been forced to watch his parents die and his sister be injured. He had gotten stronger to avenge them, but had neglected to strengthen his new family until it was too late. Now he risked losing one of the people who had meant the most to him permanently, and he was not willing to stand by and let that happen.

As he pondered what to do about Mamoru Taketori, he suddenly lighted upon an idea. Without a second thought, he whipped out his cellphone and called Manx, relieved when she picked up instantly.

"Ran?" she said, sounding very confused, "what is it?" He took a calming breath, swallowing back resentment and anger to speak.

"I need to know how to contact with Nagi Naoe. I believe I may need his... assistance." Manx was silent for a long moment after the proclamation.

"Nagi's gone too." She whispered softly. "Mamoru threw him out like an unwanted stray dog. I'm afraid I can't help you with this, Ran. If you want to find Nagi, you'll have to track him down yourself."

The line went dead and Ran gritted his teeth. He had never been a private eye like Yohji, and he didn't have the computer skills that Omi once boasted. In fact, he had little to no experience tracking people down. The last time he'd wanted to find someone, it had been Taketori, and he was easy enough to find, since he was a famous billionaire.

Something inside Ran clicked, though, and he felt his mind fix itself to the task at hand. There was no doubt in his mind that Naoe was his way in. If he had to hunt the little sociopath down to accomplish his goals, he would do so. With a deft hand he whipped his suitcase out from under the little hotel bed and growled to himself "Mission accepted."

-- --

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Japan?" Schuldig groused to empty air. He was driving through gridlock in the middle of Tokyo in a stolen Honda. He had wanted a convertible, but Brad had vetoed the idea and instructed him to go find himself a boring, nondescript vehicle. So he was driving at three miles an hour in a little grey box of a car, with the thoughts of a hundred road-rage-filled normals pressing in on him from every side.

If one more person thought longingly of their sweetheart waiting at home, Schuldig was definitely going to kill someone. He was heavily considering making it himself. He had felt a breakdown coming on for weeks, and his shielding against outside thoughts was in tatters. He kept catching himself almost changing lanes to go home to a house that wasn't his and some sentimental woman's handsome husband. Already he had caught himself humming the music playing quietly in the cars around him as he picked it up from the surface thoughts around him. Some days, he hated telepathy with a burning passion.

He was headed North, to the seaside; a little town he'd never even heard of before that started with S, went on too long, and probably meant something romantic when spelled out in Kanji. To Schuldig, it was simply a jumble of letters to be recognized on road signs. He glanced over at the flimsy white paper lying on the passenger's seat of his Honda. The directions were shaky at best, but Schuldig was relatively certain he could find the Sendai Minami interchange. After that, the roads would get smaller and less intelligible. Still better than driving in America though.

Of course, getting to S-ville would be the easy part. The difficulty would lie in actually finding his nemesis, and not letting himself get killed. If Brad was right (and he usually was, if Schuldig was truthful with himself, but he never relied on it) then Yohji would not attempt to fight him. In fact, Brad had seemed to think that the assassin turned house-frau would be happy to see him, or at least willing to associate. Schuldig took leave to doubt that assumption. The last time he had assumed something about Yohji Kudoh he'd gotten an extremely sore neck for his trouble.

Schuldig reached up to stroke a finger across the fine, white lines crossing around his throat. The cuts had been shallow, but hadn't healed as quickly as they should have. Yohji had scarred him up good and proper. For the millionth time during this trip alone, Schuldig wondered why the hell he had dragged the bloody blonde's ass out of danger at all. It had been an incredibly stupid move. Stunningly stupid. Mind-bogglingly. If Schuldig hadn't already known he was insane, he would have realized it after that move. Life would have been much easier if he'd left the kitten to rot.

His mind supplied him with jaded green eyes and a mind so gentle the telepath had been loathe to use it to his advantage. Schuldig was not a sentimental person as a general rule, but he was also to some extent made up of other people's perceptions of him. It was inevitable, having their thoughts pressing in on him at all times, that it would change his basic personality minutely at every moment. The changes being in contact with Yohji had brought out in him were the best he'd ever felt. Yohji's mind hadn't tried to sugar coat the world, and it hadn't tried to sugar coat Schuldig, but at the same time he had acknowledged that Schuldig was alive.

Of course, he had attempted to remedy that fact, but for a stranger to look upon Schuldig as a human being was rare indeed. Even that, Schuldig would have overlooked, but when the blonde man had laid eyes on Nagi during the final confrontation, his empathy for the boy had left Schuldig speechless. He hadn't broken character, but it was stunning to see that level of empathy from an enemy. It was quite obvious at that moment that he would have been more than willing to help the boy, if he could do so without injuring his team. He could not, of course, and Nagi had brought the building crumbling down about them in grief over the death of one psychopathic little schlampe.

Schuldig was so wrapped up in musings that he almost missed his turn, and cursed viciously, mostly in words running through the heads of other drivers that he did not understand. He really was in deep shit. If he couldn't keep his curses straight, his personality was probably getting close to crumbling too, and Brad wasn't there to anchor him if he snapped. With a rush of fear, Schuldig realized that for the first time in decades he was entirely alone. He had no team to support his mental identity, or watch the door while he slept in a cheap, unsecured hotel. He was on his own. He didn't dare open his mental links wide enough to search for his companions. They were too far away, and though at his prime he could have sifted through every mind in Japan with little more than a headache, he was currently far from his best. In fact, even as he was considering the problems before him, he felt a warm trickle down his face and reached a hand up to his nose. It came away bloody and Schuldig cursed, feeling the warm liquid spill down across his lips, dripping from his chin onto his clothes and the seat beneath him. He seriously needed a vacation from this "vacation."

With a sigh of surrender, Schuldig pulled off to the shoulder of the road and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, raising one hand to stem the blood flow. With each car that drove past, a wave of thoughts crashed over him like minuscule tides, leaving him a tattered shipwreck in his own mind. He missed his team with a startling intensity, and swore silently to himself that after this he would handcuff himself to Brad Crawford just to make sure he didn't split them up again. He hated the bastard, but not nearly as much as he hated the screeching buzz of normals filling his head.

**Note: For you Japan lovers, Schuldig is going to Shichigahama. Nice little place with good international ties.**


	7. Falling Towers

**A/N: Urm... yeah. So this is a week late. Sorry. I love you all bunches. I was at Anime Weekend Atlanta, playing with my Farfie (who is also my beta. Thanks, Rakuengaki!) I know this chapter's a little short, but from here the PLOT starts! (le gasp!) I hope you all like where this is leading! And if you don't stick with me! I swear all is not as it appears.**

**On a special note:**

**Princess Sin: Holy cow! You're good at this! You're so close! I still have a few tricks up my sleeves you haven't guessed yet, but WOW! I'm impressed. You've done this before, haven't you? *hugs* thanks for your review!**

**In fact, thanks EVERYONE for your reviews! I feel very loved! XD Enjoy everyone!  
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Chapter 7—Falling Towers

Yohji wasn't sure if he'd ever gone job hunting before, and didn't really care too much, but he found himself very much hoping he would never have to again. Attempting to find a job with no memory of ever having worked on anything and no references but your ex-girlfriend was so impossible he may as well have not tried.

Asuka had been incredibly kind over their breakup, smiling sadly at him and saying she had known it was a bad idea, but couldn't turn down the chance. Yohji had told her he wasn't the least bit sorry that she hadn't, though in truth he didn't know if he regretted it. He wasn't sure of anything since waking up the first time to a handsome brunette man. The man had called him by name and all but exploded with joy upon seeing him, and Yohji had felt like he was kicking a puppy when he asked who the other man was.

With a sigh, he started a pot of water heating and reached for a mug before freezing in his steps, staring at the uniform white coffee cups lining his perfect mahogany shelf and listening to he quiet steam of water. With a sudden huff of annoyance Yohji swung the cabinet door shut and clicked of the hot water before grabbing his jacket. After a day like the one he just had, he needed a drink.

The bar was all but empty, with just a couple lonely men lounging about in various corners, drowning their respective sorrows in miniature seas of alcohol, swirling the liquid in whirlpools before imbibing the swill. Yohji sat at the counter rather than one of the isolated tables, giving the rugged man behind the counter a half-hearted smile. He had a soft spot for the guy ever since the rough-faced man had complimented the elegant blue tattoo adorning Yohji's shoulder the first night he arrived. Without more than an understanding look, the bartender filled a glass with Yohji's usual brand of whiskey and pushed it over to him.

"You look like hell, man," the man said as he pulled out a rag to wipe down the permanently dirtied wooden bar. Yohji smirked self derisively and twirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"Yeah, well. We can't all be beautiful all the time like you." He slammed he liquid back, enjoying the masochistic burn in his throat and the rich, rough chuckle his words elicited from the gruff man. Without being prompted, the man behind the counter refilled the drink before turning back to cleaning his eternally grubby work space. Yohji stared at his reflection in the alcohol, studying his attractive appearance, asking his reflection silently who he was.

The door squeaked open and slammed shut behind him with a startling finality, and when Yohji turned to glance at the new occupant of the bar, he was winded by stunningly red hair and bright, acid-blue eyes. The stranger's eyes met his gaze instantly, and a slow smirk curved his lips. Before Yohji could recover his composure and reassure himself that this was not his other-worldly rescuer, the man swaggered over to the bar with a twist in his step that heavily implied ownership of the world. Yohji felt his proverbial hackles rise for not particular reason at the predatory movement, even as he appreciated the fine sight he had been gifted. The man was plainly dressed, and it didn't suit him. The t-shirt, in Yohji's mind, should have been a stylish, form-fitting jacket, and the pair of slacks ought not to have hung so loose. It was only after that thought that Yohji realized he was staring and wrenched his gaze back to his drink.

"Yo, bar-man," the redhead hailed the rugged man, voice thick with an accent Yohji didn't recognize. "Gimmie a glass of whatever blondie here's having." Yohji looked up at the redhead in time to catch a lazy, satisfied grin directed his way, and lifted his drink slightly in acknowledgment, thrown off by the redhead's demeanor. It was a far cry from his fantasy man's haunted eyes and pained expression. After being presented with his drink, the blue eyed man tossed it back with practiced ease, and if it burned his throat he didn't show it in the slightest. He placed the glass down carefully on the bar, barely making a sound.

"Opa," he muttered with a dark smirk that implied more of the word's meaning than the context. Then he turned to Yohji with intensely focused eyes. "Good choice in whiskey."

Yohji, though nonplussed, smiled just a little and muttered "thanks." The redhead tapped the bar for a refill and pushed the hair out of his eyes.

"What's your name?" he queried. Yohji got the distinct feeling he was being hit on and raised an eyebrow at the other man, but answered him anyway.

"Kudoh Yohji, if my sources are correct." A chuckle from the redhead. "You?"

The other man paused, glass to his lips, and looked to the ceiling for a long moment, taking a slow, luxurious sip of his drink.

"I think Schuldig will do," he muttered, "if you can pronounce it." Yohji tried the name three times before Schuldig nodded in approval and returned to perusing his drink.

"What the hell kind of name is that?" Yohji asked, the warmth of whiskey relaxing him past basic politeness. Schuldig seemed not the least bit offended. He only smirked and gave a half shrug, running a finger over the rim of his glass, and Yohji got the distinct feeling he wasn't getting an answer. With a quirked eyebrow and a shrug he tossed his drink back and set the glass on the counter, licking a drop from the corner of his mouth as the burn worked down his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the red head watching him with a twisted smirk on his face, the dim bar lights making the expression in his eyes harder to read and casting is face into a sinister shadow. It sent a chill down Yohji's spine and a frown skittering across his face.

"What?" He asked. The redhead shook his head, smirk twisting just a little further up his face.

"Nothing at all. I'm just happy to find that there are interesting people in this town as well," he said, voice a low purr. The bartender was not even pretending to ignore them. He was watching the stranger with open distrust, and he caught Yohji's eyes and shook his head slightly in warning. He didn't like the dangerous man either.

"We just met." Yohji said, scowling faintly. "What makes you think I'm interesting?" The chuckle that rose from the stranger was like dark chocolate.

"Call it intuition." Blue eyes narrowed in amusement, and Yohji suddenly felt cold. He pulled out his wallet and paid for his drinks, keeping one eye on the redhead, who was still gazing at him through lazy, laughing eyes.

"Good to meet you, Schuldig," he said calmly, standing out of his seat. Schuldig raised his glass to Yohji with a laugh that suggested he was well aware that "good" was not the right word.

"We'll meet again, Mr. Kudoh," he said with something of a sneer. Yohji shuddered and walked out of the bar while behind him the strange man ordered another drink. At least he was relatively sure the redhead wouldn't follow him back home. As he walked confidently through the darkened streets, he allowed his mind to wander. Of course, it strayed immediately to comparing the stranger in the bar to his mystery man. The resemblance was uncanny physically, but any comparison would have to stop there. The grim, determined look of the man who had saved his life was a far cry from the sneering, sarcastic bastard who had invaded his space at the bar.

Yohji kicked a can into an alley, watching the metal glint in the streetlights and enjoying the metallic clatter of it skipping over the cement, like toy gunfire. It wasn't a long walk back to his place, but he didn't feel like facing the empty walls again, so he took the long way, wandering through a darkened park, his skin tingling under the cool night air. The peculiar feeling of anticipation that often accosted him in the dark crept under his skin, and he wondered at how his fingers gravitated toward his left wrist, as though searching for a watch he wasn't wearing.

Yohji stopped halfway through the park at a bench that overlooked a charming pond in daylight. At night, it shone slightly under the city's lights, but the water was dark enough to conceal anything. Yohji liked the view. It reminded him of himself. Just a surface, with something underneath it that no one could see, himself included. With a heavy sigh, he bowed his head into his hands, slightly dizzy as the whiskey shots caught up with him. He could feel a deep want building inside him, twisting like a sickness in his stomach. He didn't know what it was that he wanted, and it drove him insane to feel that driving need and not know what it was he needed. He did have one clue, though. The want only came upon him when he was alone.

Raising his head to look out over the lake, Yohji wondered if he had been an only child, and what his parent's names had been, and if he was foreign, as his hair color implied. No answers came, and when his eyes grew too tired to gaze at the lake any longer, Yohji went back to his borrowed home and fell asleep in a cheerfully painted room to dream of blood and pain. Memory loss had deeply effected his abilities as an assassin. Had he still had all his skills intact, he would have noticed the figure outside his bedroom window, eyes glowing in the faint city light and red hair tumbling about his shoulders in thick tangles. The ghostly form smirked fiercely, hand on his gun, and thinking how very very easy it would be before sliding back down the fire escape and planning his next rendezvous with the sleeping man. Even being cautions, Schuldig could not resist broadcasting one brief message to his rival (helpless as a kitten. Hah!)

In the middle of his sleep, Yohji drearily woke with a sudden thought that attached itself to his mind.

"Found you, kitty-cat. Better sharpen your claws."

-- --

Mamoru Taketori woke to a shrill, feminine scream. He was sitting up, gun in hand, before the cry fully registered, and found his muzzle aimed at the young maid who woke him in the morning. She was staring wide-eyed and shocked at the floor, hands covering her mouth and entire body shaking. Very slowly, Mamoru looked to the floor.

Lying on his carpet in a shallow, minuscule pool of blood was a human head, brown hair falling about it in waves. Mamoru couldn't see the face from where he sat. He scanned the room quickly to assess any other threats, and finding none holstered his gun again and stood, padding barefoot across the floor to the disembodied man. Stepping around the thing to stand before it, his dispassionate mask slipped briefly. He heard his security guards enter the room behind him and send he maid on her way, but did not look away from the blank stare of the beheaded man. His eyes were wide and blank, and his mouth gaped open horrifically, a thick stain of blood coming from within, presumably from when he was still alive.

"Sir?" One of his men said, stepping forward, "This... We were guarding every entrance, sir. How could someone have..." Mamoru raised a hand to stop his speech and turned an empty smile to him.

"It's quite alright," he said calmly. "I wouldn't expect you to be able to stop the one who did this. He'd have just ripped you to pieces if you had tried to stop him." he knelt beside the head of Franklin Arnault, his chief advisor, and turned the head to face him fully, displaying to his guards the word carved into his forehead. "Esset."

"Call headquarters," Mamoru commanded calmly, removing his hand from the face of the dead man and wiping his fingers on his carpet. "Tell them to put Nagi Naoe on our most wanted list for murder. Dead or alive. And send someone up here to clean up this mess."

As Mamoru brushed past the men he employed to stride into his bathroom and turn on the shower, there was not a person in the room who did not shudder. It was the general consensus among them that there was something inhuman about the man who employed them. Their suspicions had been doubled by his callous treatment of the dead man. Unwilling to risk his wrath, one man stepped forward to remove the head while another relayed his message to HQ. The rest went off in search of something to remove the blood stains from the carpet.

In the bathroom, Mamoru faced himself in the mirror with a superior smirk. His alter ego was screaming inside him, fighting for escape to save the boy he loved and had already hurt so much, but Mamoru's hold was too much for the worthless little Omi. Soon all traces of the weakling who had preceded him would vanish, and if Mamoru had to destroy every remnant of Weiss to achieve that, he would. With a soft laugh directed at his reflection, he stepped into the shower and began planning how best to relay the news to the public in such a way that he would be shown, once again, as the helpless victim, loosing yet another father figure.

With one last dark chuckle, Mamoru turned the taps on burning hot and congratulated himself once more on being the best at everything he did. Nagi's betrayal of their agreement would be the last mistake the boy ever made.


	8. Dry Bones

**A/N: Urm... yeah... on time? What? Sorry I'm late again, everyone. Thanks so much for all your patience, reviews, and compliments! I'm really enjoying writing this fanfic. Plot will start to appear from here on out. Thanks for getting it rolling last chapter Mamoru! Hope you guys enjoy. Oh, and if anyone wants to know where Dolch and Crea are while all of this is going on... keep wondering. XD Enjoy the impending problems!**

Chapter 8- Dry Bones

Tokyo had never been considered a subtle city. Even in the dead of night multi-colored neon lights lit up huge portions of the streets, throwing alleys into sharp, bizarre shadows. In these dark areas lurked the scum of the city, thinking themselves invisible in the dark, like shadows within shadows. They committed their petty small-scale crimes in the relative safety of the tinted darkness, and it suited them. However any true professional knows that the best place to hide is directly in the light, so when Brad went out hunting, he stayed firmly in the chilled neon glow of the city and waited for his prey.

He was not used to working without visions guiding him, but even without his powers he was more than competent. He slid seamlessly through the night from one pool of glowing lights to another. It was not exactly a planned journey. He knew he had to search without knowing why, and hoped he would know his quarry when he stumbled upon it. Even without his more vivid precognitive abilities, his intuition was still second to none.

Whatever it was that drove him to the streets that night had terrible timing. The roughness had not left his breath from the inhalation of too much dust, and his body was pathetically weak from his latest brush with death. Even Schuldig probably would have had the sense to stay indoors in the condition Brad found himself in. But try as he might, he had not been able to shake the feeling that something out there in the town needed finding. He had not survived escaping Esset by not listening to his instincts.

He noticed he was being followed at three twenty five in the morning, and was briefly frustrated that the hunter was being hunted. He was already frustrated at his own weakness compared to his usual abilities, and his vision was blurred even behind the new glasses, his body happily reminding him that yes, he was still concussed, and no he should not have been walking for the past five hours. He mentally shook off the fatigue and threw a significant glance over his shoulder, hoping the one following would interpret it as a "come hither" look and show himself. For the first time that night, Brad deviated from his rout of populated areas and ducked into an alley, sliding through cramped space after cramped space until he was so thoroughly encompassed in the streets of lower-class Tokyo that it looked more like his native Chicago than the technology capital of the world. He finally came to a halt, facing the wall before him without trepidation. Let the follower corner him. It would be of no consequence. When he heard footsteps behind himself, he turned to face his stalker.

Red hair glinted like pools of blood in the dim, borrowed light permeating the air even half a mile from downtown, and Brad caught a flash of steel mirrored by cold eyes. Realization dropped upon him like a building (and he'd felt that twice, so he knew what it was like.) Schuldig had been the one to go after Kudoh, his nemesis, so of course...

"Schwartz," hissed a voice, harsher than Brad remembered it being. The steel of a sword glinted again, and Brad resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his gun a reassuring presence against his side. Trust Fujimiya to bring a knife to a gunfight.

"Weiss. A pleasure as always." Brad's legs tried to buckle and he fiercely berated himself for allowing Fujimiya to catch him injured. It narrowed his options for negotiation. The stand off lasted for solid minutes, each assassin observing the other in silence, attempting to read their opponent's body language and intent without the bonus of being able to see them. Brad took a long breath, biting back the cough rising in his chest.

"You have me at a disadvantage." He said calmly. Fujimiya had proven himself a man of obnoxious honor countless times. Brad seriously hoped that Fujimiya hadn't changed. He was rather stunned when steel blurred through the air in a vicious swoop, slashing down towards his neck. He raised his hands on instinct, as his mind tried to comprehend the sight of the dark man descending on him from above.

-- --

After the first night in the bar, Schuldig was everywhere. Yohji had gone off on another job hunting spree, and there he'd been, sitting at an outside cafe and smiling at him. He'd toasted him with his coffee cup and Yohji had nodded briefly in recognition, then gone on his way. When he left the business, Schuldig was still there, this time with an enormous, as-of-yet untouched ice cream sundae in front of him, and chatting with the young woman waitress amiably. Yohji ignored him and went on his way.

When he left his third interview of the day, Schuldig was sitting on a bench across the street and looked up at him, apparently surprised, before calling "Small town!" Yohji grunted in agreement and went on his way, annoyed by his inability to find a job and definitely not in the mood to deal with the chatty redhead.

By the third time he ran into him that way, he was convinced that it was not coincidence. Especially since this time Schuldig walked out of a shop right in front of him, so close they almost ran into one another. Schuldig looked up at him with theatrically startled blue gaze and Yohji resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"My goodness, Mr. Kudoh, one might think you're stalking me." He purred. Yohji sidestepped him with a sigh.

"Go away, Schuldig. I'm not in the mood."

He didn't see Schuldig again that day, but when he went to his bar that evening, Schuldig was sitting at the counter, chatting with the bartender, who appeared to actually be involved in the conversation. This, at least, intrigued Yohji. He'd picked the place because the man behind the counter had notoriously good taste in his clientèle, and never played the sycophantic, understanding bartender card.

The redhead looked up at him, hair glinting russet in the dim golden light, and a smile curved his lips, playful fire in his eyes.

"Looks like my shift is over," he said to the rugged man behind the counter. "I believe I've intruded enough on Mr. Kudoh's day. See you again, Shinyou." He left money on the counter and slid past Yohji like he was on wheels, shooting him that dangerous look and a wink. Yohji shivered briefly and walked down to the bar, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at the strange man.

"He's a little weird, huh?" Yohji muttered, sliding onto a stool.

"Not so bad," the bartender, who was apparently named Shinyou. "Just eccentric and new to town. Lookin' to make connections." Yohji frowned slightly at the gruff man as he filled a shot glass with his usual whiskey. The words had sounded almost scripted, and were somewhat out of character.

"You gunna gape at me all night or drink your damn whiskey?" the man griped as he started scrubbing at his eternally filthy bar. Yohji's uneasiness disappeared instantly at his cross words, and he snorted and threw back his whiskey. He didn't make a long night of it, only downing three shots of the stuff before heading on his way. It had, after all, been another obnoxiously tiring day. Nothing had happened, and Yohji was certain that was part of the problem. He got the feeling that he had once been a man of action.

He wandered home by the long route again, mincing towards the shadowed park, eyeballing the figures of other humans strewn around the streets, some thrill-seeking lovers, some addicts, huddled in corners and shadows. It was a cold evening, and Yohji was starting to wish he had a jacket. When he passed under the gentle yellow glow of street lights he could see his own breath fogging the air.

As he walked in silence, contemplating his situation and allowing himself to indulge in self pity while no one was watching, a resounding crash sounded from an alley as he passed. Yohji was startled a moment later to find himself crouched defensively, hand on his wrist, and eyes gazing sharply into the shadows. A figure within the dark stumbled, and Yohji heard a soft cry echo off the dirty walls. He slowly straightened, a terrible chill running up his spine, and his body weak with adrenal backlash. He knew he really ought to just keep moving, but he was a curious soul (according to Asuka) and wanted to know who it was banging around back in the shadows. He approached slowly, fingers twitching slightly. The form within slumped against the wall. Then the laughter started.

It was a quiet, dangerous chuckle, that rose to shrill, hysterical hiccups, more of horror than of mirth. Yohji stood rooted to the spot, at a loss for what he ought to do. The laughter turned into tremendous, heaving sobs that tore through the air like palpable wounds.

"Don't touch me..." the sobbing voice choked out. The pain in that voice wrenched something in Yohji's gut like a twisting dagger. The sobs came so thick that they stumbled over each other, thickening the voice of the person within the alley into an almost inhuman moan of words. "Please... please stop." Yohji grit his teeth and squared his shoulders. He hadn't seen anyone else in the ally, but if someone was being assaulted, he wasn't willing to take the chance of walking away and hearing of their death the next day. He strode back into the shadows, and briefly wondered why it felt so natural.

The sobbing had quieted to a low, quavering shudder humming through the air, and it chilled Yohji to the bone. That was the cry of someone broken. He slowly slipped around the dumpster that had blocked the figure from his view. He was greeted by a glint of russet hair and a disturbingly familiar pair of eyes.

"Schuldig?" he whispered, shocked. The man sat, quite alone, staring up at the dim lights of the apartments above him with empty eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked like a broken doll, slumped there alone. He didn't respond to Yohji's call, and the blonde briefly considered leaving him there till the alcohol daze he was obviously in wore off. But something felt wrong about the whole situation, and as Schuldig jerked slightly under an invisible assault, Yohji nodded to himself and knelt before the man, placing a hand on his shoulder. Immediately those startling eyes switched to focus on his face.

It was a heart stopping moment. There was desperation written across the handsome face, brows drawn together as though in pain, and lips parted to permit the panting gasps of breath escaping him. In that moment, Yohji knew that the man, obnoxious though he was, was his mystery rescuer. There was no mistaking those haunted eyes. Without the mask of a smile and the lights of a bar, he was unmistakable. It was the exact same face that had looked down on him through a haze of pain and spoken in un-intelligible words.

"No..." the redhead whispered, and Yohji saw his eyes clear of whatever daze he had been in. He didn't smell like alcohol at all, and the blonde was certain that whatever he had witnessed was not your everyday drunken rant. "No." Schuldig repeated, "I'm not a hero." Yohji frowned at the words, wondering how in the world the redhead had known he'd been recognized. Without allowing the frown to disappear, Yohji slipped both his hands under Schuldig's arms and lifted him to his feet. The man's legs gave out under him, forcing Yohji to sling and arm around his waist and half-drag him out of the ally.

"You saved my life, yeah?" said the blonde as nonchalantly as possible, despite the thrumming in his chest. He really wanted a cigarette. Something about the foreigner made him automatically exhausted. That he was having to drag the man down the street only made it worse. "That kinda makes you my hero by default."

"No," Schuldig denied, less vehemently, "please, you can't think of me that way..."

"Too late."

Schuldig fell silent, and it took Yohji a moment to realize that he had passed out. Fortunately he was startlingly light, and Yohji's little house wasn't far. His arms were burning by the time he reached his front door from holding up the unconscious man, but he hardly noticed as he wondered what to do with the redheaded asshole he had just brought home. He carefully balanced Schuldig against his side and fumbled his keys out of his pocket one handed, unlocking the door with minimal amounts of cursing. Once inside, he deposited his burden on the couch, taking in the sleeping face and tear tracks tracing down his cheeks, all dried now in faint contrast to pale skin.

Though he wasn't aware of it at the time, one day Yohji would look back on that night as the one that changed his entire world and solidified his future. At the time, he walked back to his room and changed clothes to get the smell of beer off himself before coming back and checking the temperature of the other man. Schuldig shifted in his sleep, and Yohji bit his lip. He was obviously unstable, and probably dangerous, but that hopeless voice in which he'd asked to not be a hero had pulled something in the depth of Yohji, and the pull had not gone away. Besides, he owed his life to the stranger, and he was definitely going to find out why. He'd take any clue to his past he could get.

"Too close..." the redhead murmured, not waking but turning away from Yohji's hand, brow twisting as though in worry. Yohji sighed, decided the man was not in imminent danger and went to make himself a cup of tea. Stress was taking its toll on him, and with a heavy sigh he over-sweetened his tea and settle down in chair, staring at the real-world personification of the man of his dreams.

He was different than he had imagined, that was for sure. His voice was more nasal, his eyes less gentle, his smile twisted cruelly than tilted gently as Yohji had envisioned it. And yet, there he lay, and Yohji knew that one way or another, he wanted to help him in return.

-- --

Brad's hands were covered in blood. Most of it was his own. He'd blocked the sword strike aimed for his neck with bare fists, rendering both his hands slick with blood and shaking. He'd barely dodged the next strike, and then Fujimiya had collapsed on him, then slumped off him to the ground, completely dead to the world. The rest of the blood on Brad's hands had come from the wound in Fujimiya's abdomen.

The future came together in Brad's imagination like the final twist of a rubix cube. and he looked down resignedly at the pale, anemic figure at his feet, and in a feat of staggering insight that no other in either team appeared to posses, he wiped his hands off on his jacket, ignoring the sting of fabric against torn flesh, pulled out his cellphone and called at taxi. He needed Fujimiya to survive, but there was no reason for him to dramatically carry him cross-country to his chosen hotel.

With the taxi on its way, Brad bound his hands with the small roll of bandages he had taken to carrying in his pocket in case he ended up pulling open any one of his numerous un-healed cuts. When they were taken care of, he borrowed the hated katana of his enemy and shredded his abnormally long coat to create a makeshift bandage for his midsection. By the time the taxi arrived, he looked more like a man out for a night with his extremely drunk friend than an assassin having just encountered yet another near death experience.

The katana had certainly been fun to explain to the driver. When the Weissian woke up, and Brad had convinced him that they could assist one another, they were going to have words about conspicuous weapons. And then, mused Brad, they would have to reassemble the shreds of their teams. There would be no other way to reach the young Taketori if he was correct about the number of telepaths surrounding him twenty four hours a day.

It would be a challenge, to say the least. By this point, getting all of them together in one city would be an undertaking. Bringing them all into one room without blood flying would take a miracle. The taxi drove up outside the hotel and Brad smooth-talked a busboy into helping him with his 'friend' before dumping Fujimiya on the couch. Things were foggy enough that he didn't too much care whether the other man lived. Not enough to risk a hospital anyway. With a groan he sat in a relatively comfortable armchair, grabbed the nearest vapid magazine, and settled down to wait.


End file.
